


anadyomene

by cimabue



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, art history wank, but only briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:23:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimabue/pseuds/cimabue
Summary: Gambit tries to convince Rogue to let him show her around an art gallery, or:an art thief tries to find a way to apply what he's learned.





	anadyomene

**Author's Note:**

> for the sake of simplicity we are going to imagine that rogue has at some point gained control of her mutation, because i am hard-pressed and unwilling to explain that nightmare in this little thing that's mostly just some namedropped artist drabbles smashed together. they don't even go to an art gallery! spoiler. probably kind of ooc because i like to have fun.
> 
> very mild language warning towards the middle.

Remy bothers her about it for two weeks beforehand.

“I wanna take you somewhere _nice_ ,” he says, catching his breath with her outside the danger room. “Somewhere you'll _like_.”

“You can start by takin’ me to the _shower_ , loverboy,” she says, and he smiles and follows her down the hall as she takes her hair down. She starts running after she hits the landing of the second flight of stairs. He catches up to her, and they go tumbling into one of the third floor bathrooms that no one ever uses, laughing.

He ends up saying it again, into her hair, when they're under the water and his arms are wrapped around her waist from behind. She keeps washing her arms, pays no mind.

“Somewhere nice,” he repeats. “You like art museums?”

“Only been to one once,” she says. “I felt stupid.”

“You alone?”

She doesn't answer.

“Sorry, _chere_. Jus’ wanna say it’s better with someone.”

“Like you?"

“If you want.”

She's quiet for a few seconds. She grabs Remy’s hands and lifts them off her stomach. “I get music better,” she says, turning around.

He smiles.

She hands him a bottle of hair product. “Could you put that in the white part? I can't see.”

His fingers are gentle enough against her scalp that she absentmindedly leans her head and chest against his and almost forgets he ever brought it up.

 

\--

 

She's reminded, personally, a few days later.

“There's one an hour that way,” he says, handing her coffee, gesturing northward.

“A what?”

“Gallery, _chere_.”

“Oh,” she says, sleepily grabbing one of his creamers off the table in front of him. “Why do you wanna go to one ‘a those so bad?”

“One of the only things I know about worth listenin’ to.”

“What if I don't _wanna_ listen to you?”

“Then I can stand an’ hold your hand and tell you how good you fit ‘mongst all the pretty art, yeah? Won’ take so long.”

She rolls her eyes.

“‘Sides, you ain' that mean.”

 _“ That_ mean? _”_

Remy giggles. It earns him a thrown sugar packet to the chest. She watches him pick it up off of the table and use it himself.

“I don't like feeling dumb.”

“Ain’ about feelin’ dumb,” he says. “‘Bout _feelin_ _’_ , yeah, but you don’ gotta feel dumb.”

She doesn't say that she's not always been the best at controlling _feeling_ , but Remy gets the vague impression from the way she looks down and drinks, anyway.

“You think about it, yeah? _C’est tout_.”

 

\--

 

The next time he mentions it she's crying but she doesn't hate him for it.

She gets called a variation of _redneck bitch_ in public for the fifth time in a week on that Thursday, and usually she doesn't care or takes care of it herself, but it overwhelms her with anger to the point where she can't figure out how to channel it anymore, and she bursts into tears in the middle of a drug store. Remy’s waiting for her outside in the van, and when she kicks a concrete parking block so hard it shatters, he looks up, alarmed. She doesn't bother using the side door and jumps in the back - maybe dents the door handle, she doesn't know or care.

 _“ Anna_ ,” he says, turning around, but she's already balled up and flexing her fists in the back, nigh writhing.

Remy follows her back.

“Anna,” he says, again, and touches her shoulder. She only swats him away once before letting his hand stay there, and by then she's violently rubbing her eyes and mouth and mostly not breathing so hard anymore.

“You calm down?”

She slumps, doesn't say anything. He grabs her hands, starts easing them out of fists. “Come on,” he says. “That can’ reach you no more.”

“I hate,” she starts, letting him pull her closer, “goin’ anywhere, here.”

“Yeah,” he says, because he gets it. Both of them stick out like sore thumbs.

A minute later he says, “You take as long as you like, _cheri_ ,” and runs his hand up her arm.

 A few minutes pass.

“Might like Rothko,” he says.

“‘Scuse me?”

“Big colorscapes. Makes emotions feel less lonely.”

She laughs, pushes on his chest. “You never _stop_ , huh?”

“Not been known to.”

But she's glad for the release, and gets into a laughing fit at him throwing four fifties on the ground near the demolished parking block before they leave.

 

\--

 

“I used to feel so much better when I could pretend nothin’ was goin’ on,” she says, glancing at the newpapers in her arms. “It’s all too much. It almost makes me miss sleepin’ in folk's bushes.” She hands Remy half of the mail - everyone's; she picks it up on Mondays and drags Remy along when she can. “Even if I got rained on at least I didn't have to listen to this shit.”

“Remy never paid much attention to anythin’ but stocks.”

“That's borin’.”

“When you know what's goin’ good you know how much you can work someone over for it, yeah? All jus’ glancin’ at numbers. ‘Sides, I wasn’ real worried ‘bout laws that lasted. Didn’ really think I’d live past twenty-three, anyway.”

“Me neither, sugar.”

They keep walking back up the driveway quietly. Remy almost drops the boxes in his arms twice, and she snorts at him over-correcting himself.

“I dunno,” she says. “Everything feels like right ol’ nonsense to me. I don't know why _we_ gotta be the ones to keep level heads, sometimes, with all the fuckin’-” she cuts herself off. She sighs.

Remy smiles, says, “You like _Duchamp_ , _chere_.”

“I’ll like what now?”

“Duchamp,” he says. “Used to fake a lot of Duchamps,” he adds.

“Oh, the- the art thing, again?”

“Promise there's _somethin’_ you like.”

She looks over at him. She drops another box on top of his stack.

“You'd _get_ it,” he promises.

 

\--

 

She's falling back on her bed and her thighs are lying open on top of his and she’s reaching to tug down her bra from the front when he pauses, noticeably, and asks if she has her camera.

“I've got my _phone_ ,” she says. “Why?”

“You look like _Venus_ , Anna Marie.”

“Shut up,” she says.

He leans down and kisses her sweetly, like he's never done it before, reaches under her and undoes the clasp of her bra. He kisses up to her ear.

“I take a picture of you?” he asks.

“Sure, sweet pea.”

"That one hasn' got a lot of use in a while," he says.

"Don't push it," she says, but she's smiling.

She frees her top the rest of the way when he leans up to grab her phone off the nightstand, shifts, unsure of how she should be laying. It must look awkward, her hair all blown on the sheets behind her, her stomach bent.

“You want me to move?”

“No, _cheri_ . God, Anna Marie, _du ciel_ . That's you. _Divin_.”

“I don't even know what you're _sayin’,_ but you better _stop_ ,” she says, and pushes on his chest with her foot, giggling. He grabs it, moves it to the side and lays the phone down so he can lean over her again.

“Like a _painting_ ,” he says.

“Oh, for _Christ’s sake_ ,” she laughs into his mouth, and then she grabs his neck and pulls his ear down to her. “Remy,” she whispers, and she can feel him smile at his name, “I'm too wet for you to not _do_ somethin’ about it soon.”

“I wanna show you so bad,” he says, “whole rooms full of pictures like you. So beautiful they’re _priceless_.”

She sighs, shakily, says, “That’s real pretty, Remy, baby, but I'm not suckin’ your dick,” and he shakes with laughter for the next full minute, and doesn't get to talk more for a long while after that.

 

\--

 

After, when Remy has his arms and legs wrapped around her, she runs her fingers over his and pretends not to notice how often his hand ghosts up over her chest.

“I couldn't touch you at all before,” she says, “and now sometimes it feels like I can't ever get you close enough.”

“Ain’ goin’ anywhere,” he says, sleepily.

“Remy,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I wanna- you wanna go tomorrow?”

“Where, _bourdon?_ ”

“The gallery.”

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, kisses her shoulder, hard. “ _Yeah_ , _chere,_ sure, yeah, tomorrow. Tomorrow. It be nice, I promise.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Won’ even steal nothin’.”

“You _better_ _not_ ,” she laughs, and pushes back onto him.

He smiles, winces, still sensitive. “You can’ get nothin’ for Botticelli remakes anyways. That where I take you. _Goddesses_ , look jus’ like you. An’ then everyone can see _mine_.”

She can tell he's falling asleep a few minutes later when his fingers loosen through hers.

“If you make my back sticky again, I am gonna be _so_ mad at you.”

He breathes out harder into her hair, but doesn't say anything.

“Real mad,” she whispers, but she brings his fingertips up to her lips anyway.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank uuu


End file.
